Murder, Mayhem, and Make-up

So I had my trial runs of my wedding hair and make-up last night and the strangest thing happened.  I went to the stylists apartment downtown to have the trial done.  She is very nice and accommodating and we worked very well together.  A little over halfway through the trial, she gets a knock on the door. 

She didn't answer.

The individual on the other side of the door knocked again, more insistently.

She and I exchanged glances and she cautiously answered with her foot blocking the bottom of the door.  I couldn't see him, but his words were clear enough.

"We just found a body next door and we need to know if you have heard or seen anything unusual in the past couple of days."  He says very clearly and calmly.

We both pause.  "What?"  She finally exclaimed with extreme emotion.  "No, nothing."  Her voice was steady and unusually loud.  I imagined her eyes widening as mine were.

"Nothing at all?"

She reassured him again and then closed the door as he turned to leave.  She was torn between the obligation to me, her client, and her new urge to freak out and hightail it back to Ohio.  Her hands were shaking.  Hell, mine were too.  We talked for a second and then got back to the trial, as dusk was beginning to settle and suddenly we both wanted to be out of there before dark.

Then it began to dawn on us that the officer showed no ID and we didn't hear him knocking on any other doors.  She promised to call the police and report him as soon as I left, but we both nervously looked out the windows and back at the now closed, peephole-less door.  I tried to assure her that she could call right then if she liked.  I was happy with the make-up and the hair seemed to be going nicely, so I was not worried.  Let's call it a night.  No, no, she insisted, we have to complete the look.

Tons of stuff started running through my brain.  If he was a real cop, where was the CSI unit?  Where were the cop cars and the other officers also canvassing the neighborhood?  Why didn't he show a badge?  Meanwhile, I looked again at the stylist, who is beautiful, tan, well-dressed, smiley, and petite.  Stalker.  He had to be a stalker, trying to get into her apartment, but scared away for some reason.  I invited her back to my place until we could figure things out.  She politely declined.

We finished up the trial, she walked me to my car, I drove her back to her car, and I drove away.

Turns out it was a real cop, the body wasn't "next door" to her apartment, but rather down the street at a residential hotel, and the body had been there for several days.  They assume either illness or drug overdose, but there was no word of foul play.  Creepy none the less.